on Fri Jan 17 2025
Every artist has their tools—paints, canvases, and of course, the unshakeable belief that they can capture the essence of a human soul with just a flick of a brush. However, I’ve come to a rather sobering realization: Every time I paint a portrait, I lose a friend. And I’m not talking about a ‘’just lost contact on Facebook’’ kind of friend; we’re talking about the tragic, heart-wrenching “What happened to Janine?” disappearance.
You see, portraits are tricky. What starts as an innocent invitation to pose quickly transforms into an existential exploration for both the artist and the subject. “Are you ready for your close-up?” is the last thing you want to hear before your friend’s essence is reduced to a smudge of paint and a questionable interpretation of their jawline. Spoiler alert: the jawline rarely translates well.
Let me set the scene. You ask your friend to sit for you, perhaps after a few glasses of wine—a devil’s brew that fuels both creativity and false confidence. As they perch on a stool, you start off with the best of intentions, capturing their luminous smile and sparkling eyes. But then, as you paint, you have a revelation: “What if I exaggerate that nose a little?” Flash forward an hour, and suddenly your loving depiction of Carly resembles a cross between her beloved pug and a Picasso painting gone awry.
The great thing about painting a portrait is that you really get to know someone. I mean, as I’m staring intently at their face, I contemplate deep questions: “Is she frowning or is it just my own anxiety projecting itself?” Yet just when I think I’ve captured their essence, reality hits. Carly is crying—perhaps it was my artistic liberties that slashed her identity into a mess of colors, but I guess you could say I painted myself into a corner.
After the disappointment settles in, that friendship usually transitions from “Hold up, can I get a copy of this?” to “Let’s just pretend this never happened.” I’ve amassed quite a collection of portraits, and alongside them, an impressive roster of former friends. Sometimes it feels like I’m a hitman of the art world, wielding a paintbrush instead of a gun, leaving the wreckage of friendships in my wake.
For every brushstroke of humor and creativity, there’s a poignant reminder that the truth can be subjective. Perhaps we all want to be seen as something grander than we are. That’s why art is so powerful—because it can glorify, distort, even obliterate personal insecurities. But here’s the kicker: our friends don’t always sign up for a metamorphosis, and no one ever wants to become the canvas for our artistic insecurities.
So here lies the conundrum. Do I let my palette run wild, risking friendships like a drunken painter at an easel? Or do I stick to abstract art, where I can express my feelings without risking my social life?
In the end, perhaps the best option is to become a recluse; that way, I can paint as much as I want without fearing a backlash from my now non-existent social circle. Because if you’re looking for honesty in art, you might just end up with an empty canvas and an even emptier friend list.
So until further notice, I am announcing a two-year hiatus from portrait painting. Who knows? Maybe my friends will reappear, and I can continue to dodge the question, “What do you think of my latest work?” It’s a dicey game, and I’d rather not roll the dice on my next masterpiece becoming my next ex-friend. Cheers to the art of handshakes, possibly void of the abstract drama!